Saturday, December 15, 2012

I opened A Christmas Carol at Bastrop Opera House last night to a small but generous audience. They were involved and engaged, and genuinely seemed affected by it. I took two bows and think I could've taken three. It was thrilling to tell the tale on that old stage in that old, old theatre. I felt as if I were channeling Charles Dickens himself! I'm honored and grateful to have such a chance. Three more performances to go!

Friday, December 14, 2012

Although I'd been determined to do so, I eventually chose not to stay in Tripoli over Christmas. The inability to find decent food (let alone Christmas food), coupled with appalling weather -- rain ten days straight, if memory serves, which flooded the already terrible roads and isolated me more than usual from my friends -- finished me off. At the last minute, I flew back to England to spend the season with my family.

All I heard about, from my arrival in London until my departure a week later, was the third-world horror that was Ethiopia -- I'd never seen such poverty and devastation -- and the well-intentioned, first-world song designed to alleviate it. It was also the first time I witnessed what can happen when large groups gather to do good. A spark of "charity, mercy, forbearance, benevolence" was ignited in me during what was a rather self-pitying time in my life, reminding me that a sure-fire way to stop feeling sorry for oneself is to focus one's attention on someone else's needs. Apologies if that sounds self-righteous but it's how it was. What I thought of as "my miserable Christmas" couldn't compare with the miseries of others. I was a bit old at twenty seven to need reminding but I'm glad the spark was lit. Even now, I readily admit that more often than not I need a "mighty fire" lit under my arse before I actually get off it (my arse, that is), but my intentions are good, even if my personal road to hell is paved with them.

Band Aid was a charity super-group featuring leading
British/Irish musicians and recording artists. It was founded in 1984 by Bob Geldof and Midge
Ure to raise money for anti-poverty efforts in Ethiopia by releasing the song,
"Do They Know It's Christmas?"for the Christmas market that year. On 25 November 1984, the song was
recorded at Sarm West Studios in Notting Hill, London,
and released in the UK
four days later. The single surpassed the hopes of the producers to become the Christmas
number one on that release. Two subsequent re-recordings to raise
further money for charity also topped the charts. The original was produced by
Midge Ure. (Wikipedia)

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
"Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
"Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.'
"Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?

"VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
"115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET."

VIRGINIA,
your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a
skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can
be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they
be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a
mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world
about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of
truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and
generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your
life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there
were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would
be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this
existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal
light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might
get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to
catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what
would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no
Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children
nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not,
but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all
the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but
there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even
the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart.
Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view
and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this
world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years
from now, Virginia,
nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the
heart of childhood.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

When temperatures flirt around the freezing mark in Austin, Texas, it's a big deal. It's headline news. Brits tend to laugh at this as, in their homeland, it's flirtin' around flippin' freezin' for much of the winter.

For British kids, however, snow on Christmas Day is a big deal. Just once in the twenty-seven Christmases I spent in the UK, we woke up to snow on the day itself -- in 1962. We couldn't understand the grown-ups' general lack of enthusiasm but then we didn't have to shovel the front steps or grit the streets. All we knew was that our dreams had come true. God, Father Christmas, and the baby Jesus had conspired to bring about perfect winter weather for this nearly-five and nearly-six year-old.

I don't seem to have my sister's obvious glee but that's perhaps on account of my bad hair-cut.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

Most single expatriates
in Dubai celebrated Christmas Day with their friends in apartments or villas.My own favorite took place in
a true Middle Eastern house with a large, central, stone-paved courtyard
sheltered by willowy palm trees.All the
rooms, including the kitchen, went off the central courtyard.In
the corners sat enormous pots with ficus trees and bright pink bougainvillea plants,
still blooming in December and growing up the inside walls , their
trunks so thick you could see how old were the original plants.

It was a typically warm December so a
dining table set for twelve had been established outdoors in the middle of the
courtyard.The Arab setting was so
perfect, you could almost picture the Scheherazade and the Sultan sitting down
to partake in a spectacular feast with marvelous stories to follow.This image was slightly distorted by the
Christmas crackers on each dinner plate, and the smell of the traditional
English turkey dinner filling the air.Also somewhat incongruous was the twinkling, colorfully decorated Douglas
fir in the corner of the yard beside the bougainvillea.All the same, this was a beautiful blend of
European expatriate and local Arab themes.When we twelve sat down to a multicultural dinner of turkey, sage and
onion stuffing, roast potatoes and Brussels sprouts, combined with local vegetables,
cous-cous and Persian salads, I was moved by an almost overwhelming feeling of
joy – of community and sharing and love.It probably looked absurd: singing English
Christmas carols, paper hats on our heads, while palm fronds waved above us and the Islamic call to
prayer blared out from the mosques...but that's when I reminded myself that I
was closer to the actual birthplace of Jesus right here under these shimmering stars
than I’d ever been in my life.

Waxing so poetic here, I make the whole day sound wistful, sentimental. Not at all! Crazy cocktails were devised; Australian boxed wine was supped, and though I'm not a Scotch drinker, I "tested" several of those that were available. Family stories and saucy jokes were told. Ridiculous presents were exchanged then played with throughout the afternoon, proving that grown-ups everywhere revert to childhood once Santa has been to town.

Honestly though, for all the fun and merriment, what I remember most is the sight of the "table of plenty," that moment of connection, and a lasting sense of being included in a home away from home. And the scotch.

On the second day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the third day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the fourth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the fifth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the sixth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the seventh day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the eighth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the ninth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the tenth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Ten lords a-leaping,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the eleventh day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Eleven pipers piping,
Ten lords a-leaping,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Twelve drummers drumming,
Eleven pipers piping,
Ten lords a-leaping,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree!

Friday, December 7, 2012

Life was simpler back in the early 1960s. Everything connected with
Christmas is on top of, alongside, or in front of the radiogram.

Christmas Tree - check

Creche with the Angel Gabriel on top - check

Fruit (including rare oranges and bananas) - check

Nuts with nutcracker - check

Selection of drinks including sherry and two bottles of beer, and a tray of all-purpose glasses at the ready - check

Fern wallpaper - check

There
should be a tin of Quality Street and/or Roses confectionery somewhere
-- I wonder if the biblical birth scene is on top of the chocs; there's definitely a box beneath the log cabin. I can't
see the little wooden box of EatMe dates, dates being the one concession to the actual birth place of the baby Jesus. I
think those are little bottles of orange juice but if so, where's the
gin? Orange juice is of no use without gin. This was before the days of wine-drinking, at least in our house. We always had Dubonnet and Schweppes bitter lemon to offer guests but it seems to be MIA -- maybe Christmas Eve was a bit jollier after the children went to bed, or maybe Santa was less of a milk and cookies man than we thought! I believe that's a bottle of Scotch whisky lurking behind the cheap sherry -- that would be for Dad. The unopened Bristol Cream Sherry would be for Mum. There's "Tizer" for my brother
and sister and me. That would be our Christmas dinner treat. I
suppose the gifts are out of sight under the tree. Surely that one wrapped parcel on the chair can't be the only gift!

It's quite possible that the Cratchits had more for their Christmas Day celebrations than this but "Be it ever so humble," this little corner of our household brought more joy than you can possibly imagine.

Thursday, December 6, 2012

1984, then, was to be my first Christmas out of England,
actually my first Christmas not spent in the family home, and I hadn't missed Christmas church in my 27
years on Earth.

Alright then. I'd make a real effort to create some kind of festive
feeling.Libya being a strict Islamic
culture, this wouldn't be easy but nonetheless I hunted for a
tree.I know now that there are indeed
conifers growing in north Africa, in Libya even, but I swear there wasn't a
Christmas tree lookalike to be found anywhere in Tripoli.Naturally I didn't imagine I'd find shops
selling them: Fayed's Famous Fir Trees, right?As it was difficult enough to find simple household items for every-day life,
I knew that was beyond my expectations but I had thought some expatriate somewhere
might sell me a fake fir tree, or even something I could make resemble a fir
tree.Apparently, though, if expats had
made what would surely be a supreme effort to bring a fake tree into the country, they either kept hold of
it until they left for good at which point it would be sold on the black market
for thousands of dollars; or it had to be pried from their cold dead hands like
Charlton Heston's gun.

Honestly, what was I thinking?Crazy, CRAZY, to imagine I might find a
Christmas tree - real or fake - when it was so hard to find even a regular house
plant.The only way to procure a genuine
potted plant, i.e. a Busy Lizzie or a Spider Plant or a Wandering Jew (not
called that in an Arab land, of course) was to go to the above-mentioned house sales of folks
leaving forever in the hope that they'd be selling off their domestic greenery.Single, white females would fight
over a healthy rubber plant much more vigorously than they'd fight over any
single, white male.In acts of desperation,
young female expats (I number myself among them) were inclined to dream up ways
of making potted plants from vegetables.I grew many a straggly "hanging plant" from a sweet potato in
a jar of water.Of course I grew many
more mosquito-ridden, mold-covered, soggy lumps of waste matter, but seriously,
for the sake of a little greenery, it was often worth it.

Although not famous for my crafty ways, i.e. my ability to
create something out of nothing with my hands, I decided to build a Christmas tree out of paper.As I've mentioned
many times, paper wasn't easy to get hold of but I dug up from somewhere a
couple of sheets of green craft paper and I made myself a tree.When you think that my brother is a graphic
designer and gifted artist, and my sister, a naturally talented sketcher (more
artistic talent in her pinky than I have in my whole being) it's hard to
believe that I could create something so naff.But there it is.And here's a
picture to prove it.As you see, I
obviously located bits of red paper, yellow paper and shiny paper too, because the
fabulous tree displays a few equally naff decorations (hearts and bells?) and a
star on top.I went all-out on the
creativity and made a silver angel from toilet roll innards and kitchen foil, complete with a
little white net cape to represent its wings. Don't ask where the netting
came from.God...and perhaps the angel...alone know. It looks more like a martian bride.

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

There was once a shoemaker, who worked very hard and was very honest:
but still he could not earn enough to live upon; and at last all he
had in the world was gone, save just leather enough to make one pair
of shoes.

Then he cut his leather out, all ready to make up the next day,
meaning to rise early in the morning to his work. His conscience was
clear and his heart light amidst all his troubles; so he went
peaceably to bed, left all his cares to Heaven, and soon fell asleep.
In the morning after he had said his prayers, he sat himself down to
his work; when, to his great wonder, there stood the shoes all ready
made, upon the table. The good man knew not what to say or think at
such an odd thing happening. He looked at the workmanship; there was
not one false stitch in the whole job; all was so neat and true, that
it was quite a masterpiece.The same day a customer came in, and the shoes suited him so well that
he willingly paid a price higher than usual for them; and the poor
shoemaker, with the money, bought leather enough to make two pairs
more. In the evening he cut out the work, and went to bed early, that
he might get up and begin betimes next day; but he was saved all the
trouble, for when he got up in the morning the work was done ready to
his hand. Soon in came buyers, who paid him handsomely for his goods,
so that he bought leather enough for four pair more. He cut out the
work again overnight and found it done in the morning, as before; and
so it went on for some time: what was got ready in the evening was
always done by daybreak, and the good man soon became thriving and
well off again.One evening, about Christmas-time, as he and his wife were sitting
over the fire chatting together, he said to her, "I should like to sit
up and watch tonight, that we may see who it is that comes and does my
work for me." The wife liked the thought; so they left a light
burning, and hid themselves in a corner of the room, behind a curtain
that was hung up there, and watched what would happen.

As soon as it was midnight, there came in two little naked elves; and
they sat themselves upon the shoemaker’s bench, took up all the work
that was cut out, and began to ply with their little fingers,
stitching and rapping and tapping away at such a rate, that the
shoemaker was all wonder, and could not take his eyes off them. And on
they went, till the job was quite done, and the shoes stood ready for
use upon the table. This was long before daybreak; and then they
bustled away as quick as lightning.The next day the wife said to the shoemaker. "These little elves have
made us rich, and we ought to be thankful to them, and do them a good
turn if we can. I am quite sorry to see them run about as they do; and
indeed it is not very decent, for they have nothing upon their backs
to keep off the cold. I’ll tell you what, I will make each of them a
shirt, and a coat and waistcoat, and a pair of pantaloons into the
bargain; and do you make each of them a little pair of shoes."The thought pleased the good cobbler very much; and one evening, when
all the things were ready, they laid them on the table, instead of the
work that they used to cut out, and then went and hid themselves, to
watch what the little elves would do.About midnight in they came, dancing and skipping, hopped round the
room, and then went to sit down to their work as usual; but when they
saw the clothes lying for them, they laughed and chuckled, and seemed
mightily delighted.Then they dressed themselves in the twinkling of an eye, and danced
and capered and sprang about, as merry as could be; till at last they
danced out at the door, and away over the green.

The good couple saw them no more; but everything went well with them
from that time forward, as long as they lived.

"The Elves and the Cobbler" or "The Shoemaker and the Elves" is
an often copied and re-made 1806 story. The original story is the first of three fairy tales,
contained as entry 39 in the German Grimm's Fairy Tales under the common title
"Die Wichtelmänner". In her translation of 1884 Margaret Hunt chose "The
Elves" as title for these three stories.

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

My mum was a single parent with three children under the age
of seven.She became aware, after Dad
went away, that Christmas was turning into an unhappy time for her little children,
a time of worry and stress.God alone
knows how worrying and stressful it was for her -- that hardly bears thinking
about -- but later she told us that, fearful we'd only remember sadness and
pain, she decided to create some happy memories for us.

One of these "happy memory creations" was the
making of decorations for the Christmas tree.I imagine she couldn't afford shop-bought decorations so this was probably
a cost-saving idea as well.Necessity is
the mother of invention.Either way, on
weekend afternoons in late autumn, we went ambling in the woods of Winchester.That's a bit vague, isn't it?There's no such thing really, but we could walk
"up the Firs," a stand of glorious fir trees not far from our house,
or "down the Water Meadows," a staggeringly gorgeous "living
landscape" between Winchester Cathedral and at the base of St. Catherine's
Hill, close to Winchester College.We could
walk across North Walls park, our town recreational area, or along the Twyford
Downs through which the infamous M-3 now runs.Wherever we went, we'd pick up pine-cones, acorns, rose-hips, twigs, leaves,
seedpods, stones, whatever looked interesting; I recall little bunches of
crab-apples, a bit wrinkly but somehow still alive in December.Of course, there was always holly, mistletoe and ivy, though I can't
remember mistletoe being plentiful like it is here in Texas, and I always considered ivy boring.

Back home, Mum would set the table with wire, string,
scissors, paintbrushes and little pots of silver and gold paint.I must say, the way I describe itnow, it all sounds magical and
joy-filled!Eat your heart out, Little House on the Prairie.Truly, if memory serves, it was mostly bickering
and squabbling and slapping of the backs of hands: "I found that
one!" and "That's mine!" and "Mum, it's not
fair..."The phrase, "It'll
all end in tears," comes to mind.I
believe it often did...end in tears, I mean.Nonetheless, these home-made natural treasures adorned our tree that Christmas,
and remained in our festive collection for years to come, precious and filled
with memories, exactly as Mum intended.

Even now, I choose natural objects for my festive decor:
pine cones loiter on the paths throughout my neighborhood, "Pick me, pick
me!" and my own jolly holly tree always sports flashy red berries in
December.It lends the whole season a
more genuine vibe, a more sincere sense of connection with earlier, simpler
times when we didn't need so much stuff to be content and didn't have to try so
hard to be happy.

Sunday, December 2, 2012

In 1987, when I worked the Jebel
Ali Hotel
in Dubai, I had
to work on Christmas Day. I'd asked
about a December vacation but at one of our busiest times, it was out of
the question.

I've read Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol every December since I was 10 and that first
Dubai December, I read it at lunch-time sitting on the beach -- a bit odd being
in full secretarial garb among the swim-suited German holiday-makers but I
tried not to let it bother me. When
sadness overwhelmed me or I missed my family, which was often in those days, I
shed a few self-pitying tears before pulling myself together. Life goes on, right?

But I did resent working on Christmas Day. I became a "squeezing, wrenching,
grasping, scraping, clutching covetous old sinner" myself, especially when
I saw that although the hotel was packed with international tourists and Dubai
expatriates who did get the day off,
there was no reason for me to be in my office.
Nothing needed to be done in my office that day. Oh, I could have
done some typing or caught up on filing but the phone didn't ring, no one
visited, nothing had to be done that couldn't wait until the next day. I paced around the lobby, scowling at folks
enjoying their Christmas day, whining about my hard luck. "Humbug!" I mumbled to no one in
particular, "Humbug!" Of course, it wasn't fair for one person to be off when every
other staff member was on overload but that didn't occur to me until quite late in the day. In
retrospect, I was a thirty year-old of
breath-taking immaturity.

I should tell you here that the conventional Victorian Christmas was alive and well in Dubai, celebrated in hotels such as the Jebel Ali; and
while most European Christian expats living on the banks of the Persian Gulf observed the season in their apartments or
villas, many of them took advantage of holiday merriment at their favorite
hotel.

The Jebel
Ali Hotel
was famous for its Christmas display.
Oh, how hard the staff worked to make it perfect for the guests! In the lobby, there was a life-size replica of Santa’s sleigh suspended
precariously above the vast expanse of marble floor. There were Norwegian
spruces with blinking lights surrounded by fake snow. Chef Lee and his patisserie team build a
gingerbread house just like the one I pictured in Hansel and Gretel; its scent
permeated the entire place. I recall
carolers dressed in full Victorian costume singing about “the bleak mid-winter”
with sweat dripping down their faces on to their woolen scarves and mittens...or
did I dream that? At the same time, outside the hotel, through the back
windows, you could see youngsters splashing about in the swimming pool; their
parents sipping pina coladas with colorful umbrellas at the swim-up bar;
half-naked sunbathers in loungers coating themselves with sun-oil while palm
trees swayed in the warm breezes of the Arabian sea. Every now and then, the two worlds would
collide as sun-burned, sand-coated children with plastic swim-rings around
their middles and stripy towels around their necks wandered through the
snow-covered lobby to get roasted chestnuts.
Or as red-suited Santa himself -- the English sales manager, if I
remember correctly -- sack in hand, sweat streaming down his face, would walk
across the beach volleyball courts calling, “Ho-ho-ho!”

I've often wondered: did anyone catch the irony that Jesus was more
likely born in the simple sandy world outside the window with the heat and the
date palms than he was in the air-conditioned indoor world of hot chocolate;
roaring fires and ornamented fir trees?

Saturday, December 1, 2012

In an old abbey town, a long, long time ago there officiated
as sexton and gravedigger in the churchyard one Gabriel Grubb. He was an ill-conditioned,
cross-grained, surly fellow, who consorted with nobody but himself and an old
wicker-bottle which fitted into his large, deep waistcoat pocket.

A little before twilight one Christmas Eve, Gabriel
shouldered his spade, lighted his lantern, and betook himself toward the old
churchyard, for he had a grave to finish by next morning, and feeling very low,
he thought it might raise his spirits, perhaps, if he went on with his work at
once.

He strode along 'til he turned into the dark lane which led
to the churchyard - a nice, gloomy, mournful place into which the towns-people
did not care to go except in broad daylight. Consequently he was not a little
indignant to hear a young urchin roaring out some jolly song about a Merry
Christmas:

We wish you a Merry Christmas;
We wish you a Merry Christmas;
We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Good tidings we bring to you and your kin;
Good tidings for Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Oh, bring us a figgy pudding;
Oh, bring us a figgy pudding;
Oh, bring us a figgy pudding and a cup of good cheer

We won't go until we get some;
We won't go until we get some;
We won't go until we get some, so bring some out here

Gabriel waited until the boy came up, then rapped him over the head with his
lantern five or six times to teach him to modulate his voice.

The boy hurried away, with his hand to his head, "Owwww!" Gabriel Grubb chuckled to himself, "He he he!" and entered the churchyard, locking the gate
behind him.

He took off his coat, put down his lantern, and getting into
an unfinished grave, worked at it for an hour or so with right good will. But
the earth was hardened with the frost, and it was no easy matter to break it up
and shovel it out. At any other time this would have made Gabriel very
miserable, but he was so pleased at having stopped the small boy's singing that
he took little heed of the scanty progress he had made when he had finished
work for the night, and looked down into the grave with grim satisfaction,
murmuring as he gathered up his things:

"Brave lodgings for one, brave lodgings for one,
A few feet of cold earth when life is done."

"He he he!" he laughed, and he carried on laughing,
as he set himself down on a flat tombstone, which was a favorite resting-place
of his, and drew forth his wicker-bottle. "A coffin at Christmas! A Christmas box. He he he!"

"Ha ha ha!" repeated a deep voice close beside
him.

Gabriel looked all about him but there was nothing to be
seen.

"It was the echoes," he said, raising the bottle
to his lips again.

"It was not," said that same deep voice.

Gabriel leapt to his feet and stood rooted to the spot with
terror, for his eyes rested on a form that made his blood run cold.

Seated on an upright tombstone close to him was a strange,
unearthly figure. He was sitting perfectly still, grinning at Gabriel Grubb
with such a grin as only a goblin could call up.

"What do you here on Christmas Eve?" said the
goblin, sternly.

"I, um, I came to dig a grave, sir," stammered
Gabriel.

"Tut, tut, tut!What
man wanders among graves on such a night as this?"

"Gabriel Grubb!
Gabriel Grubb!" screamed a wild chorus of voices that seemed to fill
the churchyard.

"What have you got in that bottle?" said the
goblin.

"Hollands,
sir," replied the sexton, trembling more than ever, for he had bought this
Dutch gin from smugglers, and he thought his questioner might be in the tax-and-excise
department of the goblins.

"Who drinks Hollands
alone, and in a churchyard on such a night as this?"

"Well, Gabriel, what do you say to this?" said the
goblin, as he grinned a broader grin than before.

The sexton gasped for breath and was unable to answer.

"What do you think of this, Gabriel?"

"It's--it's very curious, sir, very curious, sir, and
very pretty," replied the sexton, half-dead with fright. "But I think
I'll go back and finish my work, sir, if you please."

"Work!" said the goblin, "what work?"

"The grave, sir."

"Oh! the grave, eh? Who makes graves at a time when
other men are merry, and takes a pleasure in it?"

"Gabriel Grubb!
Gabriel Grubb!" replied the voices once more.

"I'm afraid my friends want you, Gabriel," said
the goblin.

The sexton was horror-stricken. "Under favor, sir, I don't think they can; they don't know me,
sir; I don't think the gentlemen have ever seen me."

"Oh! yes, they have. We know the man who struck the boy
in the envious malice of his heart because the boy could be merry and he could
not."

Here the goblin gave a loud, shrill laugh which the echoes
returned twenty-fold.

"I--I am afraid I must leave you, sir," said the
sexton, making an effort to move.

"Leave us!" said the goblin laughing loud and
long.And as he laughed he suddenly
darted toward Gabriel, laid his hand upon his collar, and sank with him through
the earth. And when Gabriel had had time to fetch his breath he found himself
in what appeared to be a large cavern, surrounded on all sides by goblins ugly
and grim.

"And now," said the king of the goblins, his new friend
from the churchyard, now seated in the centre of the room on an elevated seat, "show
the man of misery and gloom a few of the pictures from our great
storehouses."

As the goblin said this a cloud rolled gradually away and
disclosed a small and scantily furnished but neat apartment. Little children
were gathered round a bright fire, clinging to their mother's gown, or
gamboling round her chair. A frugal meal was spread upon the table and an
elbow-chair was placed near the fire. Soon the father entered and the children
ran to meet him. As he sat down to his meal the mother sat by his side and all
seemed happiness and comfort. The meal was small and cheap: a tiny goose eked
out by apple sauce, boiled potatoes, mashed in the saucepan, and gravy.It wasn't much of a Christmas dinner but it
was sufficient for the whole family.

"What do you think of that?" said the goblin.

Gabriel murmured something about its being very pretty.

"Show him some more," said the goblin.

Many a time the cloud went and came, and many a lesson it
taught Gabriel Grubb. He saw that men who worked hard and earned their scanty
bread could be cheerful and happy. He saw that mothers and children with little
enough to eat and drink could be joyful and glad.Even employers and their employees could be
jovial and kind to one another.And he
came to the conclusion that it could be a very respectable world after all; a
world in which he, Gabriel Grubb, could be content, could be cheery, indeed
perhaps could even be happy; that it was possible for him to make that choice.

No sooner had he formed this opinion than the cloud that closed
over and the last picture seemed to settle on his senses and lull him to
repose. One by one the goblins faded from his sight, and as the last one
disappeared Gabriel sank into a deep sleep.

Christmas Day had broken when he awoke, and he found himself
lying on the flat gravestone, with the wicker-bottle empty by his side. He was quite alone.There was no goblin nearby; he heard no
voices crying, Gabriel Grubb, Gabriel
Grubb.

He got to his feet as well as he could, and brushing the
frost off his coat, turned his face towards the town and started to walk.

But he was an altered man, he had learned lessons of
gentleness and good-nature by his strange adventure with the king of the
goblins, by the visions he'd seen in the goblin's cavern.

And as he walked into the town, people heard a sound they'd
never heard before.Gabriel Grubb could
be heard to sing,

We wish you a Merry Christmas;
We wish you a Merry Christmas;
We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Telling the Tale, "Gabriel Grubb, Gabriel Grubb"

I adapted this wonderful story for The Hidden Room's Christmas event in December 2011. Photos are from that sublime evening.

Dear Blog Friend

My mum (in England) and I (wherever I happened to be living) used to write each other every week...snail-mail letters, of course. When we both got computers and email became popular, we wrote every day...about everything, from the weather to what our neighbors were doing, from the political situation to popular shows on the telly. When she died, not only did I miss my lovely mum, I missed our regular written conversations; and I lost my daily writing fix. Now I admit the messages were sometimes ridiculously banal but they were often hilarious and always fun to receive. So to start with at least, I'm going to imagine my blog is a note to my mum in the hope that you'll like reading it as much I liked reading her notes to me.